The Awards recognise two outstanding poems from each issue of Eucalypt,
selected and appraised by winners of the Awards in the previous issue.

Several species of eucalypts (gums) exhibit distinctive squiggles that
result from moth larvae eating the live wood and leaving a scar that
is revealed when the tree sheds its bark. This image of a gum
with its insect-generated calligraphy, inspired the naming of the award.

how old is the air
that bubbles to the surface
of the lake? how old
are my memories my dreams?
& who breathed them before me?

Ross Clark

This tanka is about things invisible and intangible, air, memories, dreams.
The lake and air bubbles on the surface are present, a concrete start for the poem,
but even they don't have shape and get their color from other matter. As water
and air are essential to life, so memories of what was and dreams of what might
be are necessities for our souls.

Recently I read something, source forgotten, recalled by the tanka, about
how the air we breathe may have been inhaled earlier by a genius. Interesting idea,
I thought, happy to think of being connected to the past and future by air, in
touch with those I love and strangers, the famous, the intellectuals, and all
the rest.

The pivot was a repetition of the first words, "how old,"at the beginning
of the first line and at the end of the third. He poses the question. His
readers' answers, if they have any, will vary.

Then, the last lines held my attention. Memories shared? Well, of course.
Even though we don't see events the same, we do share. However, my dreams
are unique, aren't they? Not quite, according to Ross Clark. I pictured him
standing alone at a lake, a slight haze blurring the surrounding green
vegetation, before sunrise or just after sunset's glow has gone, aware
of his place as part of a boundless community rather than of himself
as individual.

Primarily, it was the tanka's message, its subject and substance, that
caught me. After many readings, I was intrigued to notice the traditional
5/7/5/7/7 pattern, without thinking about the punctuation often considered
part of the syllable count. Moreover, I liked the flow of the poem, one
line to the next without hesitation. Teachers from my school days instructed
us not to stop at the end of a line when reading or reciting poetry, rhyme
or not, unless punctuation and sense called for a pause. The absence of a
comma between "my memories" and "my dreams" impelled me on like thoughts
crowding the mind or bubbles rising to the surface. Unlike those thin-shelled
air bubbles, the poem stayed to keep me company, like the memory of a
quiet lake.

Fittingly, there appear in this inaugural issue of Eucalypt,
five eucalypt, (or gum, as it is commonly called in Australia), tanka.

One of them, a lovely piece by Janice M. Bostok, introduces the journal
with these appealing lines:

eucalypt leaves
in stillness spin round
thin then broad –
eyes not yet open the pup
nuzzles into my hand

Later, amongst the pages of delightful tanka, I found this gem by Michael Thorley:

our front yard gum
grown from a sapling
to a giant –
all those black cockatoos
fair exchange for a lawn

My initial thought was ‘how Australian’, my second, ‘how fresh and unclichéd’.
This is so down to earth in its sentiments, and yet it has that lightness
of touch and expression which characterises skilful tanka.

The Australianness is not simply the setting with our unique black cockatoos.
It is in the poet’s attitude of ‘fair exchange’: the barren ground which
results from the gum tree using all available moisture to sustain its
growth, is offset by his delight that this giant now attracts
‘all those black cockatoos’.

Australian, yes – but universally, too, this tanka can be read as
affirming the positive acceptance of nature’s gifts over an artificial
construct, a lawn. We can do without the extravagance of lawns, especially
in these drought years in Australia; yet we do need wild birds,
‘the creatures of the air’, in our urban lives. For most of us,
birds symbolise freedom, and grace in freedom. There is a balance in
this tanka, birds for a lawn, and also the sense of life’s inevitable
movement and change: sapling into giant tree, sown grass into rough
ground, the coming and going of black cockatoos.

Thorley’s tanka is not only layered with interest and meaning, it is also
technically sound, following a traditional short / long / short / long / long
rhythm for a total of twenty-five syllables. The final two lines, of
six syllables each, are beautifully balanced, and roll off the tongue.

a snapshot
of me and the girl -
between us
handsome as ever
is my only son

Kirsty Karkow

How fortunate we are that this particular “Eucalypt” flowers twice a year!
How daunting, though, the task of choosing just one of the profusion of
blossom-sprays for appreciation when so many draw one’s eye (and heart).
How sad to have to bypass the wit, drama, sadness of so many to select
just one. Anyway …

I chose, after much deliberation, the tanka above.
It only made its full impact on me on the second reading through the collection.
I like it because of its tight construction, careful crafting, and unique
subject – motherly love and possessiveness. It is also (I hesitate to use
the term) multi-layered.

The basic situation presented to us is of a mother looking at a snapshot of,
I guess, herself and “the girl”, with her son positioned between them. The
attitude of the mother toward the two people is markedly different. The girl
is just “the girl”, without name or status. The phrase places her at a –
slightly wary, cold or hostile – distance. The son, on the other hand,
is admired as “handsome as ever” and then revealed, in the last line, to be
“her only son,” thus emphasizing his special value. The weight of her attention
is on her son.

For me, this tanka centres on the close relationship that a mother can have
with her son, and the wariness and guardedness that can accompany it,
especially when a lover or potential partner approaches with designs.
The phrase “between us,” aptly placed in the middle of the tanka, is the
heart of it. Its first meaning is the simple one of physical location in
the snapshot. I can see (or imagine) three other meanings of “between.”
First, the son is someone that may be claimed by both mother and
“the girl,” and hence the object of a struggle “between” them. Second,
there is the possibility that the mother’s relationship with the girl
will be mediated by the girl’s relationship with the son – “between”
as “coming between” or “standing between.” Third, if we take the tanka
slightly differently, and see the mother’s realization of the normality
of what may occur between the son and the girl, but with the understanding
that there will be, naturally, some pain for her, the “between”
suggests “moving between.” This gives the tanka a feeling of sadness,
rather than of possessiveness. These various meanings, if I have not
gone too far astray, give the tanka a depth that unfolds only on closer reading.

The tanka is concise, with a neat 3-5-3-5-5 syllable rhythm. Each line adds
something significant to the picture, culminating in the final line, which
strongly underlies the son’s value to the mother, and reinforces the tension
between herself and “the girl.” The tanka suggests that a real story is yet
to unfold, a suggestiveness that adds to its strong impression.

A colleague of mine once commented that life is a series of separations,
beginning with birth - when the child separates from the mother’s body.
This tanka captures skillfully the tension inherent in another of them.

Editor's NoteLike Ross Clark, Michael Thorley found choosing one poem only, very
challenging. Here are Michael’s comments on another of his favourite poems.

Moira Richards

my breast
on the minotaur’s
altar …
will it be enough
to sate his hunger?

Moira Richards

This is a tanka with punch. It was one that gripped me immediately when
I read through the collection the first time. As I see it, the person
speaking has lost a breast to cancer. The dreadful, existential
question that goes with such situations is: is this the end of it,
or will the disease strike again, with similar or worse results?
The breast is seen as an offering to an unseen killer, in the hope
that this single, massive sacrifice will be all that is required.
The mention of the Minotaur sent me to my references to refresh my
memory of Greek mythology. This brief research provided evidence for
the aptness of the metaphor. The reference to the Minotaur is deeper
than might appear on a quick reading.

The Minotaur, in mythology,
was a monster with the head of a bull and the body of a man. He existed
in the fabled labyrinth and, before being slain by Theseus, demanded
human sacrifices from the citizens of Crete. The cancer is thus represented
as a monstrous creature (very true), partly human, living in a treacherous
labyrinth (as the body can be understood), and devouring the lives of a
certain number of young people each year. The mention of the altar also
brings in that helplessness and desperate supplication we can feel when
confronted by life-threatening and unpredictable forces.

The tanka is in a concise and exact 2-5-2-5-5 syllable form, and
reads naturally. The point is made directly and concisely. The use
of the minotaur as a poetic embodiment of the cancer is apt and effective.
Although it is not part of this tanka, we can extend the metaphor,
and note, with a cheer, that the Minotaur was, eventually, slain.

The anguish of the editor or the judge is akin to that of a child having to
choose just one confection from a cornucopia; with these tanka, however,
I could take a “suck it and see” approach repeatedly, without in any way
diminishing the particular piece (in fact, they tasted better each time).
Nevertheless, I eventually ended up with three mighty tanka, but then found
myself choosing the one that had shone out on my very first reading of the
issue: Bob Lucky’s “I’m trying to see”.

I would like to begin, however, by noting the pieces by Linda Jeannette
Ward and Cynthia Rowe. Ward’s “peeling” tells a story of domestic continuity
in a wry and warm fashion ~ her grandmother manages to retain a recipe
secret even after her death. Rowe’s “rain has pounded” is a more public
narrative of family ~ rain hides, and fire cannot find, the missing one.
Both these tanka exhibit formal looseness, in that most lines are of
similar length, the endings decided by the narratives. Each resonated
in its own way.

Lucky’s tanka is also formally loose, just 21 syllables arranged
fragmentarily (almost in four lines really), but charmingly just right.

I’m trying to see
the point of staying –

he says, and we know the staying is not just of this moment,
but most likely of this relationship. He is at a point of decision,
and naturally either course of action produces regrets. If he stays
there are plenty of negatives with the positives; if he goes, there
are equally attractive positives accompanying the negatives of the
broken relationship. Many of us can relate to this dilemma, too many of us.

But "if I sit/ just so" Lucky continues, a little something happens that
illuminates the moment, as it has many times in the past. Ironically,
the source of illumination is that symbol of continuing inconstancy,
Lady Luna. She is always there, revealing and hiding her face, month
after month 13 unlucky times a year. Always waxing, always waning, the
story of every relationship.

if I sit
just so the moon
floats in my tea

I rejoice in the audacity of that conjunction, as the fickle moon floats
in the brief cup of tea, giving comfort and direction to Lucky as he
contemplates what to do in the next moment and for the rest of his life.

I’m trying to see
the point of staying –
if I sit
just so the moon
floats in my tea.

I am honored to have the opportunity to choose a favorite poem from the
elegant pages of Eucalypt, but, as with others before me, I found it
difficult indeed to isolate just one from such a wealth of offerings!

As I studied the fine contributions in the last issue, over time I
returned again and again to the compelling immediacy of James Rohrer’s poem:

never pity
the solitary bird –
what poetry
the owl must hear
in the wind, in the trees

The writer calls our close attention to a night owl silhouetted against the sky.
In the first lines: “never pity / the solitary bird”, he warns.
He notes with empathy the gifts of poetry an owl receives within its intimate
nocturnal surroundings. Of course, the first impression for the reader-poet is
a close connection with this owl! As poets, we are essentially eremitical:
Consciously or unconsciously we see ourselves as a “solitary bird” —
up late at night we craft and polish our own small songs.
In the final three lines, through the use of graceful phrasing,
Rohrer creates the eerie impression of an owl silently flitting from
branch to branch – at home in the forest! Indeed — “never pity” us!

From a technical position, I searched for flaws in this poem, but must
confess failure in this respect. There are no unnecessary words or
syllables; every phrase nestles perfectly into place. The central pivot
phrase, “what poetry” sits comfortably between the first two lines and
the last two. In my opinion, this is a perfect little poem.

The cost of having your tanka selected for one of Eucalypt’s Distinctive
Scribblings awards is having to try to choose one poem from the next
issue—just one—as its outstanding tanka. I have found that a high cost,
indeed, for Eucalypt 4 is full of outstanding poems. My first “short list”
was half the issue! However, becoming increasingly cruel in my appraisals,
I found some little nit to pick with many of the candidates. I finally
came down to a true short list, which follows:

the peonies
hard pink fists
ready to open
and you pressed against me
this early morning hour

—Annette Mineo

this beach glass
scoured a cloudy blue
so like your eyes
fading and emptying
to a relentless tide

—Carole MacRury

past midnight
a robin’s alarm call
I turn
into the sliver of moonlight
stretched across the bed

—Maria Steyn

Annette Mineo’s “the peonies” is my selection. I cannot find a single nit
to pick with either Carole’s or Maria’s tankas; they are truly wonderful.
But . . . Annette’s has a power and beauty that puts it at the top of my list.

the peonies
hard pink fists
ready to open
and you pressed against me
this early morning hour

This tanka is an extraordinary exemplar of that “certain haziness” that
characterizes tanka, despite its vivid imagery. The pellucid diction leads
the reader to expect a definite image and that of the closed peonies is
certainly vivid and accessible. Still, what is happening here? Ah, that
is the magic of tanka: the reader must complete the poem. The deceptively
plain statement conceals a myriad of possibilities; there is plenty of
dreaming room for the readers’ individual experiences and contexts to fill with detail.

I have no idea if Annette had one specific scenario in mind for this tanka,
nor what it might be if she did. As just one reader, my initial reading was
in the context of an erotic encounter. In that context, the alternating
texture of the lines, the incipient explosiveness of flowering, the visual
imagery, the closeness, the time of day, all build towards a climax that is
just beyond this moment. The tanka is gorgeous, intimate, powerful.

Of course, that is just one reading. Pondering upon the poem, I found myself
looking at a very different scenario: a mother holding her new-born to her
breast in the gentle dark before dawn. A classic mother-and-child image,
even a Madonna and Child, is possible here. The power of the poem is
undiminished, but shifts from eroticism to even greater intimacy, even
purer love. Whose heart is so cold that this image does not warm it?

It also occurred to me that I am reading this tanka with a feminine
persona assumed and that doing so is not at all necessitated by the
poem itself. Even more variations open up.

I daresay some present readers of this appraisal are right now certain
that I am a dunce or blind because they have readings completely different
to any I have suggested. That is the magic of tanka in action! Annette Mineo
has given us a tanka in which not one letter may be changed; it is fully
realized and has amazing depth.

With so many outstanding poems in Eucalypt 5, how to select just one for distinction?
Inevitably my choice will say as much about me as the poem I have selected. I especially
enjoy spare tanka that effectively employ metre, assonance and alliteration to achieve
a strongly lyrical quality. I look for a clear image that allows me to enter the scene
easily, and I most resonate with poems that are deeply sensual. This is an admittedly
difficult quality to define. Perhaps the novelist James Baldwin captured it best when
he wrote that "to be sensual is to respect and rejoice in the force of life, of life
itself, and to be present in all that one does, from the effort of loving to the breaking
of the bread."

As I read and re-read Eucalypt 5, I found many wonderful tanka that fit this criteria.
Cathy Drinkwater Better's fingertips, aglow with sunlight and throbbing with music.
M. Kei's loss for words as he experiences the miracle of simply being alive to the
beauty of creation, unable to communicate to a young son a spiritual reality that can
only be known by direct intuition. Kirsty Karkow walking away from a seed, aware that
she is only part of a generative process of life that will continue long after her act
of planting has been accomplished. These, and many other poems, enriched and humbled me.

After several days two poems kept calling me back again and again. It is really
impossible for me to say whether I am most affected by Mariko Kitakubo's lovely tanka
of remembrance, where citron flavored noodles become a sacramental communion between
a mother and daughter, or Lisa M. Tesoriero's footsteps in the sand. Since I am
only allowed to select one tanka, I will choose Lisa's wonderfully expansive meditation.

Without directly stating a location, Lisa's opening three lines conjure up an image of
a sandy strand. I envision it as an seaside beach; the vast expanse of the ocean, never
mentioned, is nonetheless a powerful presence in this poem. She draws our attention to
the countless footsteps of people who are walking along the shore with her, people of
every age and kind. Humanity, on the edge of a vast creation.

Lisa's poem invites us to ponder with her our place in this vast sea of life. Perhaps
the natural tendency is to find our own personal space of security, to mark off carefully
what is ours, and to cling to this comfort zone. The struggle of the individual to
protect his or her own selfhood over and against all others is surely a major component
of human existence.

Lisa looks for her own footsteps in the sand, but finds it difficult. In light of the
natural drive to individualisation, we might expect her to state the problem thus:

sometimes it's hard to know
which belong to me

But in the final line she instead inserts the crucial word don't, and the poem is
transformed into a marvelous meditation on the impossibility of individual identity.
We are inextricably a part of everyone else and everything else.

footsteps
of all sizes
on the sand –
sometimes it's hard to know
which don't belong to me

— Lisa M Tesoriero

Technically this tanka is well-crafted. The repetition of the "s" and "o" and the careful
attention to metre creates a pleasing lyricism that begs to be read outloud. Thank you,
Lisa, for sharing your poem with us.

There is nothing easy about choosing just one poem to be honored above the rest,
especially when choosing from a journal such as Eucalypt, filled with only
the finest tanka from all over the world. Like others who have had the honor before
me, I found it a most difficult task, compiling list after list until I was left
with this one poem by John Martell that I could not resist:

all my lines
are tattered today
like poppy blossoms
blown against
this picket fence

— John Martell

The first thing that struck me about this poem was its easy, fluid rhythm,
the lines just rolling off the tongue, falling in sync with the next until you
have this one perfectly succinct simile, not a word or line out of place or unnecessary.
Simple, clear and concise. I was also struck by the poem’s dramatic imagery—the
poppy blossoms lying tattered, having been blown against the picket fence, an image
as beautiful as it is tragic. There is a subtle irony at work. While the images speak
of destruction and ruin, the poem itself unfolds smoothly and naturally, revealing a
higher truth within five little lines. The end result is one of creation rather
than destruction.

But while these things make John’s poem good, one thing in particular for me makes it
great and that’s its first line. Upon my first reading, I interpreted “all my lines” to
mean “written lines”—the poet is struggling to create a poem and everything he
pens ends up tattered and useless, which he likens to the poppy blossoms. But after
reading and re-reading the poem, I quickly came to see how there was actually a plethora
of possibilities we could attach to this word “lines”. By basic definition, “lines”
are connectors or pathways. “Lines” could be words, penned or spoken, a brief note
or an insincere phrase. A “line” could be one’s gig or expertise or direction.
It could signify a row, a crease, an outline or even a boundary. Symbolically,
“lines” could mean all his efforts in the world, or perhaps his connections, with people,
with God or with himself. The inferences are endless.

While I can’t say for sure what John meant in this first line, I can say that the meaning
has been made larger than even he might have intended by his choice of words. If he had
in fact used “words” or “poems” in place of “lines”, you can see how we would have had a
very different poem, one not even half so rich or meaningful. But by using the phrase
“all my lines”, John has infused the poem with nuances that go far beyond even our own
understanding of what’s at work here. Everything within the poem and outside of the
poem seems to come back to the word “lines”. Look for instance at the last line—
what is a “picket fence” but a boundary or a border made up of a neat little row of
“lines”? How brilliant! Poems are made up of lines as are our connections to others
and our paths through life. Lines play many significant roles in our lives, and it isn’t
always a bad thing for them to become broken or tattered or disconnected. But these
“lines” of John’s are far from “tattered”; they result in a single lucid, flowing line
rich with meaning.

For me, John has written the perfect tanka—a poem with natural rhythm, striking
imagery, subtle irony and incredible depth of meaning. It is not just a poem of images
or just a poem about an event or even an idea—it is a multi-layered poem that reveals
a powerful message, reminding us all that even through imperfections in this life, it
is possible to draw “lines,” or connection and meaning, to the earth, to the world around
us and to one another—and this to me is what makes John Martell’s poem more than worthy
of this award.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder is an old and now so trite maxim that we rarely think about it when we use it. It implies, of course,
a subjective aesthetic judgment, despite various aesthetic schools which believe there must be a few objective criteria on which to base
our judgment and discern good from bad art. In most ways, our judgment is always subjective and it is not a matter of great importance…
unless, for example, you have 15-20 excellent poems in front of you and have to choose one. After five readings of Eucalypt, Issue 6,
I found that even being as subjective as I could be, there were still too many excellent poems to choose from. So, in the end,
I let my intuition sleep on it overnight and decided Maria Steyn’s poem, “deep autumn---” was the poem that had the strongest effect on me.

Briefly, it is beautifully written in the sense of being highly poetic, it has exquisite imagery, and a sense of mystery about it that can be suggested,
but not directly stated. In particular instances she uses negatives in a powerful way as if the night is incomprehensible, a dark halo itself:
her no, no, not, are wonderfully placed. And several of her lines have an assonance dear to my heart, e.g., “to stir the faint circle,”
so pleasant and subtle. Finally, however, I was drawn into the circle of moonlight on the lawn. It is the kind of ethereal circle we observe from our
window which draws us to the mystery of experience, of our standing in the world. We think there must be something quintessential here that has meaning,
something that stirs us deeply, but ultimately faint, evasive.

In Maria’s poem she directs us to this experience but it is not itself said because we really cannot say it directly. We feel it, perceive it,
words draw us toward it. Thus the poem takes us to the luminous edge, where a poem should take us and leaves us in awe of what the poem has conjured.
When I read this poem for the final time, I recalled all the nights when I stood at my window gazing at the moonlight resonating in purple hues on the
glowing expanse of snow below me—and I am touched by the unnamable stillness, the mystery of it all, seeing what I cannot say.

At the risk of parroting the words of previous judges, choosing one winner from over a hundred is a daunting task. I believe the poems found in Eucalypt 6
are outstanding examples of their form and I would go so far as to say their authors are among the best writers of tanka in English today.
To judge them is a real honour.

Kirsty Karkow’s tanka was not initially on my short list, but further reading convinced me that it deserved to win. This poem deals firmly yet gently with
serious and potentially inflammatory themes, and in the best ‘less is more’ tradition, we are not told what to think, but are left to ponder the
ambiguities raised.

I have heard it said that one shouldn’t speak of politics and religion. This tanka has both in the second line. Not only that, but these
‘social unmentionables’ are presented in the form of a command. I’ve read very few tanka which commence by demanding our attention with an order –
“put aside
elections and talk of god”
Although Kirsty is telling us to ‘put aside’ these things, it automatically brings them to mind; our defences are raised, ready to react if necessary.
My natural instinct when told what to do is rebel, perhaps even do the opposite, yet this tanka had me intrigued. Who is speaking?
The author? And why say this? Reading further I discovered much more than anticipated.

Speaking of god and elections leads not only to circular arguments, but in the extreme, to war and death. To be able to ‘put aside’ these topics
for a while may help create a safer world. Sure, continue the search but don’t expect to find ‘one straight line’ in a ‘rounded sky’.

Nature is made up of curves. Straight lines (and hope) belong to humans.
I see Kirsty’s poem as being about humanity searching, looking upwards for proof and answers that possibly will never be found; for one simple
answer to complex questions, such as those of politics and religion. It is human nature to hope that there is something looking after us:
an honest politician, a party with an agenda for the betterment of all, an all-seeing, all-loving god. The searchlight scans and
people hunt, yet they discover nothing. But the tanka does not suggest that we should give up our search.

Kirsty has crafted this tanka very skillfully. The syllable count creates a natural rhythm, each line leading to the next.
There’s a major break after ‘god’; but there’s also a slight pause after ‘sky’. This feels natural, as if Kirsty is giving us time to take
in the enormity of what she’s just said.

There are many other poems I feel deserve acknowledgement but I will limit myself to two from my short list. Personally, I love multi-layered tanka
and those which give us pause for thought. This may give some insight into why I chose the poems I have.

The first is Mariko Kitakubo’s beautifully crafted tanka. I love her use of balance; balance of freedom and ‘isolation’, ending with ‘this
Vernal Equinox Day’, the one day of the year where night and day are equal in length. Her ‘sky so blue’ tells me she’s happy (maybe with an
important decision made?) and after the vernal equinox, as the days get longer, hopefully her happiness will also continue to grow.

The final poem I’d like to comment on is John Martell’s hard hitting stubborn cancer patient. I imagine the patient to be dying of lung cancer,
with all the indignities it involves. Nevertheless he shuts himself indoors, smoking continually, ‘treating his tumours with contempt’ – his way of
saying ‘do your worst’ to life and fate. This unexpected image provides a clever ending to an often cliched topic.

I feel that sharing something we’ve created, like tanka, demands a huge amount of trust, especially when we send our little creations, like children,
out into the world. Thank you all for trusting us with your tanka. They were a joy to read!

out of the ocean
a full moon rising,
I turn away
from its silver path,
shield my unlit heart
Max Ryan

Max Ryan’s tanka caught my attention with its gentle, understated exploration of human emotion. Most readers will have viewed
a full moon rising over the ocean, a lake or river and will remember how perfect and breathtaking a scene it is.
The narrator in this tanka is no exception, he is acutely aware of the beauty surrounding him and even the moon’s
iridescent reflection across the ocean does not escape him. The splendour of the scene is poetically described in the
first two lines where assonance slows the reader down and adds a melodious tone. We find ourselves dwelling on memories
of similar scenes and some readers might even consider how the moon inspires curiosity and wonder, carries an air of mystery
and can be seen as symbolic of love or unattainable beauty and wholeness. A strategically placed comma invites us to savour
the view and linger awhile.

After this introduction the next two lines take the reader by surprise. Instead of being immersed in the beauty and atmosphere
of the scene the narrator turns from the rising moon and its ‘silver path’. Any sailor would attest to the fact that the ocean
as a body of water is a fickle force to be reckoned with, and in the same manner life can be viewed as a mystery carried along
by forces beyond our control. Who would then refuse to experience the exhilaration offered by a few minutes of treading along
an illuminated path of perfection? Why would anybody want to turn from an enticing ‘silver path’ with all its fairytale
connotations? Once again punctuation creates a pause and leaves us with many questions to ponder.

In the final line the reason for the narrator’s response is revealed with the alluring image, ‘shield my unlit heart’.
The heart, traditionally the seat of emotion, is compared to a candle or lamp that has not been lit and the quiet sadness of
this image touches the reader. Everything is luminous and filled with beauty: the moon, the silver reflection across
the water, but not the narrator’s heart.

There are various reasons why a person’s heart could be dark, the most obvious being the experience of sorrow, pain,
loss or grief. Light and beauty can threaten sorrow because it will invariably accentuate the painful emotion the
person might be trying to subdue. A person might also fear to ‘contaminate’ beauty with the darkness they are experiencing,
or they may feel like turning away from what can be perceived as ‘false advertising: life is imperfect, yet the magnificence
of this scene entices us to believe otherwise.

It is the restraint, graceful imagery and simplicity in which complex emotions are explored that enchanted me in this elegantly written tanka.

I would briefly like to highlight two other tanka, the first being John Martell’s ‘across the pond’:

across the pond
sunset explodes in bronze
and green fir spires –
we stand hands together
free from the weight of words
John Martell

Once again a nature scene stops two people in their tracks to admire the glory of a setting sun. The spiritual
overtones inherent in the use of ‘spires’ pull the poem towards a deeper level and the final two lines leave the
reader in a reverent state of silence. Are the hands held together in prayer, or are the two people holding hands?
This double meaning enhances the effect of the poem and the profound image in line five offers the reader a brief
glimpse into the release experienced when beauty and closeness set us free from the burden of words, entrusting
us to a sacred realm of wordless understanding.

Lastly, a few words on Linda Galloway’s ‘the neat line’:

the neat line
of Puritan grave markers
in a fiery sun
the noise
of their forbidden dreams
Linda Galloway

This tanka brought a smile of recognition. We notice the ‘neat line’ and ‘grave markers’ instead of
elaborate gravestones
– no excess, not even in death. How spectacularly the fiery sun releases all those repressed
desires and dreams!

It is an enchanted moment when a poem leaps off the page springing into the reader's heart and mind to be remembered
and repeated. This lightning link has much to do, I feel, with background, culture, interests, sensitivities and
possibly recent reading material.

I had just finished enthusiastically re-reading Kidnapped and was in the midst of a novel about expatriate Scots in
colonial America, the day that Eucalypt arrived in the mail. I opened the silken pages. Wham! There was McClintock's
poem bellowing at me for attention. It is a strong, blatant verse; a surfeit for the senses.

after five days
bagpipes and haggis aplenty
I'm going to flee
old Scotland, the same as
my bandit fathers before me
Michael McClintock

I have a Scottish background (Kirsty being a Gaelic name) and have all my life heard fabled stories about the haggis,
a wee beastie that runs around a mountain, always in the same direction, with the uphill legs shorter than the downhill ones.
The taste of it does not bear discussion. Believe me, a little goes a long way. Much the same can be said for bagpipes,
an exciting wild wailing meant to scare the enemy but, again, a little goes a long way. McClintock may have visited
the land of his forefathers hoping to connect and resonate with it, but five days were enough! His clan probably left
Scotland for religious reasons but he found the culinary and musical persecution sufficient to make a man flee.
Notice that the word bandit comes from the Italian bandito, from bandire, to banish. Interesting choice, no? They all felt banished.

It appears that the poet longed to connect with his history; and he expresses an underlying disappointment that he was not
captivated by it. Is there a conscious decision to cover this disappointment with wry humour, using some vocabulary resonant
of the Old Scotland he had hoped to be part of?

There is musical rhythm despite a couple of pretty long lines for tanka. There is a narrative with a beginning and conclusion.
There is a mid-poem pivot and a turn of image and subject in L5 that creates a strong final line; the realisation that a love
affair with Scotland was not to be. For me, this is the epitome of a modern English tanka, redolent with classic Japanese
undertones and a lot to admire.

In direct contrast to McClintock's rough and ready tanka is this one, by Jan Dean. A poem of meditative serenity that draws
the reader irrevocably into its charmed circle. The quiet language shows how discursive thoughts can subside into the deep peace
of a quiet mind. A Zen garden. The visitor is first attracted to the movement of the fish before realising the meaning and affect
of sand and stones. This is a very powerful tanka, beautifully executed.

There is also the captivating carp drawn by Pim Sarti.

on my first visit
I missed the raked garden –
today the stones
shift my mind further
than the carps' fluidity
Jan Dean

I cannot leave you without mentioning a poem by John Martell which startles the senses with almost violent imagery, the shock of which stuns its viewers into silence...and an understanding of the powerlessness of words in the face of natural events. Do not miss the implications of that one small word – spires. And, are they holding hands, or praying?

across the pond
sunset explodes in bronze
and green fir spires
we stand hands together
free from the weight of words
John Martell

It is impossible, as you can see, to choose one poem from such a fine collection as is consistently presented to us in Eucalypt by its editor, Beverley George.

When judging poetry of any kind it's always hard to decree one poem as better than all others.

Tessa Wooldridge’s seamless metaphor of a musical stave to depict the far west NSW network of fences and rail track touched
on something powerful and unique to this country and I can imagine anyone who has ever lived in those regions or travelled
the train-route from Parkes to Broken Hill would find deep resonances in this poem:

from Ivanhoe
to the Menindee lakes
fence, train track, fence
a stave in musical harmony
singing across the land
Tessa Wooldridge

I loved the assonances of Barbara Fisher’s image of a snowbound landscape where she contrasts ‘the rough red road’ that is now,
in the grip of winter, ‘silent and white’:

how strange
to see tree ferns
bent with snow
and the rough red road
silent and white
Barbara Fisher

Joyce Christie’s poem about a quayside farewell with its sorrowful mood of dispersement stayed with me for a long time:

How effective the use here of ‘forever’.
Finally, though, the death-side scenario of Carole MacRury’s tanka, with its desperate cadences of a life being held onto beyond reasonable hope, stood out:

a glass vase filled
with out-of-season tulips
oh, how we tried
to force-feed spring
into her winter decline
Carole MacRury

One of the ways a poem can fall down is the presence of 'leaking', where an unnecessary word obtrudes or where the reader may
be diverted by an extraneous detail. At first I wondered about it being a ‘glass’ vase but then realised that this detail
too added to the sense of transparency in the poem where the impossible feat of trying to maintain a human life beyond its
natural limits is blatantly exposed. The ‘out-of-season tulips’ (suggesting the artificiality of this highly cultivated
variety of flower, aggressively colourful and bold in appearance) are seen as filling the vase, one imagines, to its very limit.
The poem’s final two lines bring the chill realisation of the force that has been exerted in this struggle with the disturbing
image of spring being ‘force-fed’ into the winter of the woman’s dying hours.

Perhaps the author could have added an even more urgent tone to poem by putting the active verb ‘tried’ into the present tense
but the atmosphere of a fast-fading life is depicted so vividly here, we are left finally with the subsuming sense of hopelessness
we all must feel in the face of death’s natural, inevitable unfolding.

sky scraper cranes
above a building site
on the footpath
a heap of crisped, fallen leaves
beside a birch twig broom
Beatrice Yell

Occasionally, a tanka poet will step out of the self-reflecting mode and craft a poem that invites the reader
to engage in a different level of contemplation, placing emphasis on idea rather than emotion.

The huge themes and ideas that Beatrice Yell has compacted into the matter-of-fact language and spare lines
of her poem bring to mind those passages in Ecclesiastes that speak of a time for every purpose and for every work,
and how under the sun all things are full of labor.

Embedded in the poem’s simple imagery is a powerful sense of human and natural history, the flux and flow of things,
intertwining human activity with natural processes. We see in the construction crane about to swing into action,
and in the rustic broom about to tend to its sweeping, the alpha and omega of beginnings and endings, a contemplation
of man and his works within the great harmonies and cycles of nature: constructing and deconstructing, rising and
falling, filling and emptying.

The mind that made the construction crane and harnessed the laws of physics also fashioned the lowly birch twig broom.
One is a tool for building, the other a tool for sweeping away. In them, we see a large part of man’s activity on earth,
generation-to-generation, all played out within earth’s own unceasing but mute natural cycles of growth, increase, and decay.
In the mind’s eye, the scene evolves before us: the building rises beam-by-beam, piece-by-piece. In spring, as the building
goes up, the bare trees along the footpath will leaf-out and once again a green summer will be provided its light and shade.

I think the poem is true to the complex realities of history and of contemporary life. It appears to be grounded in a
pragmatic philosophy that sees man and nature bound up together in a relationship that is essentially complimentary
rather than inherently or necessarily confrontational. There is no symbolic evil in the construction cranes; no romantic
or sentimental fantasy about nature. It is a quiet poem of illumination, reflecting on the Big Picture, and is delivered
sans rhetoric in the simple language of sincerity. I am persuaded that Ms. Yell must be a natural philosopher of the first
order, and may be as wise as Solomon.

institution child
boxers riddled with holes
shirts buttonless
where to start
to make amends
Elizabeth Howard

In the ninth edition of the excellent international tanka journal Eucalypt I found the superb quality of the
poems on a vast range of themes impressive. As subscribers, we can read and ponder upon submissions from all parts of the globe.
These vary from the immediacy of visual impact – such as Barbara Fisher’s plum blossom, and David Terelinck’s the stars, to Catherine Smith's
bacon and eggs with its implied optimism. And from the empathy stirred by Joyce Christie’s dawn, Carole MacRury’s morning sun, the
quirky ‘groundhog day’ scenario of Jo McInerney’s I run so hard and the suggestive reminiscence of Bob Lucky’s just as I am – to the one
that seared me to the core – institution child by Elizabeth Howard.

This poem’s first three lines state simple facts in matter of fact language. This leaves the reader faced with a
practical and manageable task; the repair and replacement of clothing for the institution child. Then it changes to the personal;
where to start. A quick shop at a chain store as well as a little time with a needle and thread and a packet of buttons can only do
the visible mending. But as for the rest of the mending – it is indeed a quandary of mammoth proportions.

This particular child is likely to be one of thousands and even millions in a similar situation either in
Australia, America, or in any part of our war-torn planet. That he is not given a name highlights and emphasises both his helplessness
and his vulnerability. To even begin to address
the incredibly difficult task of mending the anonymous child’s emotional wounds is a daunting task.

Here, the skilful use of the word ‘amends’ has been used to pinpoint this dilemma and works well allied with the suggestion of the physical act
of mending in this poem. The use of straightforward, unambiguous language in this tanka heightens every word to resonate within this reader.

Even just one child in this situation is one too many. Long-term studies reveal the catastrophic impact of abandonment on babies and young children,
from birth onwards. Such waifs will face the same challenges as other children, without the confidence and identity which strong family bonds provide.
Little wonder they grow up troubled in a troubling world.

A simple tanka has the power to inform and engage the reader concerning topical global issues that impact on us all.

It was a great pleasure to have the honor of choosing one distinctive poem from among all the superb poems we consistently find in Eucalypt.
The process was made easier for me once I realized this task was less about judging one poem against another and more about my own personal
taste and sense of connection. As I read through the journal once, twice, taking notes on poems, I realized my selections were geared to my
mood and the circumstances of my life at the moment. I found myself drawn to poems which I felt had an authentic voice. To poems that took
me by surprise, swept me into an intense feeling of simpatico for another poet’s experience and mindset. This strong connection was often
enhanced through the use of sensory and figurative language, strong images, alliteration, metaphor and other such poetic devices.
The following poem is the one that I consistently came back to, gaining something more from it with each reading and which I finally
selected for the Distinctive Scribbling Award.

new year dusk –
two black figures on the bridge
are old wooden posts
what else have I mistaken
in the year just closed?
Sonam Chhoki

I was surprised not once, but three times in reading through Sonam Chhoki’s poem. The first time was in the dim setting of the opening line.
A new year suggests new beginnings to many, a clean slate, a new start, a new day, but this poem opens a new year at dusk, reminding us of
the year just closed. The poem darkens even more with the observation of two black figures on a bridge, a deeply resonating image.
I found myself peering intently into the scene right along with the poet, even to the point of squinting, wanting to reach for my
glasses for a better view. The second surprise comes like a magician’s sleight of hand with the discovery that what seemed real was
but an illusion, a trick of the mind. The correlation between the first three lines and the final two lines comes as an epiphany in
that one suddenly wonders what other things in the past year were not as they seemed. What else may have been misinterpreted or in
some way not seen clearly and truly. The sense of speculation in the final two lines was further enhanced by the assonance of ‘posts’
and ‘closed’ effectively bringing the two parts of the poem together.

I would also like to offer honorable mention to the following poems and their authors: “winter sunshine” by Julie Thorndyke, tickled
my senses with the spreading warmth of the sun as lover. Naomi Beth Wakan’s “tidal pool”, for the voyeuristic experience of watching
barnacles “kick open” to feed, an intimate action that resonated with the feeling of “welcome” in the last line. Kozue Uzawa for what
I felt as a startling epiphany in “picking pumpkin seeds” and the way she left space for the reader to contemplate life after the wedding.
John Soule’s sense of aloneness with “alone on the patio” where even the mosquitoes are not interested in taking a bite and Beverly Acuff Momoi
for “our tortoiseshell cat” in which she uses form to enhance the cat’s action with alliteration, “fierce focus” and parallelism,
“belly chest shoulders/mine mine mine”.

I felt like Roald Dahl's Charlie in the Chocolate Factory. As I saw it, Eucalypt is a poetical
phantasmagoria, where tanka adepts from around the world display imagination, skill and technique
to articulate their deepest emotions, thoughts and experiences. With this came, to paraphrase
George Steiner (No Passion Spent), 'a nagging weight of omission:'

Which tanka should I pick from among the impressive array? Would I do it full justice?
What if I omit a worthy tanka?

It did not altogether diminish the delight with which I revisited the poems several times. This
tanka by Mariko Kitakubo began to grow on me. It has a compaction of imagery and allusions
(personal, mythic, poetical) that played on the mind each time I read it.

moonlit night
in the bamboo forest
a child god
transforms into a badger
to summon his mother

The seemingly straightforward description in the first two lines of the tanka:

moonlit night
in the bamboo forest

takes on a certain charge with the line:

a child god

The reader is forced to stop and take note. It evokes for me allusions of myths and beliefs –
deities appearing to the initiated, the innate sacredness of nature and the allusion to the
archetypal magical attributes of the moon itself. Even as the reader holds their breath there
is shift and a metamorphosis of image and perception. The child god (divine) transmutes into
a young badger (mortal). The line:

to summon his mother

suggests a vulnerability of the badger cub and there is a note of tenderness in the poet’s
observation. What struck me is the immersion in the scene and moment that Mariko Kitakubo
creates with a deftness and lightness of touch while remaining an unobtrusive observer.

An arresting detail of this tanka is the way the shadows of the bamboo in the light of the
moon mirror the stippling black and white effect of the badger’s head. It evokes a poetical
parallel with Blake’s Tyger, whose golden and black stripes are described as ‘burning’
in the ‘forest of the night.’

The tanka has a pleasing sonority when read out aloud. The long ‘o’s in moon
and bamboo and again the recurring ‘o’s in forest, god, transforms, summon
and mother slow down the pace and create a sense of wonder as in an echoing Oh!
The near-rhymes of mother and badger as well as in the short ‘it’ in lit
and long ‘it ‘in night further enhance the sonority of the tanka.

Mariko Kitakubo’s tanka is imbued with a sense of a magical moment and as a reader I
felt privileged and moved to be allowed to share this.

It would be remiss of me to neglect other tanka in this issue, which deserve a very honourable mention.

Ian Storr’s tanka is very Vermeer-like in its portrayal of light, shadow and above all,
translucency– the turquoise blue, one imagines, of the settled sea, the light on
the balcony reflected by the white plate and the suggestions of shadow mingled with
transparency in these two lines create a veiling effect with a delicious sensuous overtone:

grapes the green of jade

the seeds within like shadows

John Quinnett’s tanka is also visually powerful. The repetitiveness of the falling leaves
mirrors the repetitiveness of the woman’s sweeping. The slow-dance effect transforms a
practical task into an aesthetical moment.

The ellipsis in Carla Sari’s tanka is laden with such poignancy:

‘We’ll meet again,’

I lie . . . to my sister

Another haunting tanka is by Linda Galloway:

am I still a mother

now that my child has died

echo the descent of the stone to an unfathomable depth.

Barbara Fisher’s tanka imbues a mundane daily chore, ironing with a poetical elegance.
The quiet of the room is enhanced by the lengthening shadows and the contrast with the hiss
of the iron steam sets up a contemplative tone. One gets a sense of an instance all the more
precious for the unexpectedness of it – a kind of finding the sacred in the profane.

I also like the child-like delight that Mary Franklin captures in her tanka. The assonance
in again, train and rain brings out the sense of a gush of inspiration.

Athena Zaknic’s tanka conjures a sinister setting – dusk, her slow walk from the bus
stop, his waiting underlined by the line:

now on his fourth stubby

There is a back-story to this and an uneasy sense of something about to happen, which raise questions:

Is he a stalker? Is he a violent parent or partner?

That the poet offers no answers makes the tanka all the more compelling.

Finally, Max Ryan’s tanka has a brooding sense of mortality:

… sixtieth birthday …
the darkness out there
… the tug of an unseen tide.

back home
from the oncology ward
I peel my first orange
the burst of juice and smell
colour of the sun I missed
Sonam Chhoki

I am impressed at the quality of the work in the tenth edition of the tanka journal,
Eucalypt. The task of choosing one tanka over all of others is rather overwhelming.
Two tanka about writing, Shona Bridge’s a distant light and Mary Franklin’s suddenly, appeal
to me as a writer who knows about the two pages, one blank, the other overflowing with
words that pour from some source beyond us. I am intrigued by Kath Abela Wilson’s
when what might happen/happens, sympathize with the ones who have experienced recent
earthquakes: Barbara Strang, Helen Yong, and Nola Borrell. None of us are immune to
natural disasters—floods, tornados, hurricanes, fires, etc., that shatter lives.
Other tanka appeal to me: Michele L. Harvey’s painting, Allegria Imperial’s into fog,
Lynette Arden’s thanks to my mother, Max Ryan’s woken on the eve. One that I like
especially well–that I also wanted to choose–is Edith Bartholomeusz’s tanka about
children. Far too many children in all parts of this earth are on the far side/of
the river:–/no bridge/from there to here.

After reading through the tanka several times, I eventually chose back home. This
tanka followed me around while I was making up the bed and doing laundry. Chhoki has
captured the universal experience of cancer and chemotherapy in a wonderfully positive way.
We all know the horrors, either through personal experience (I have had breast cancer) or
the helpless agony of watching a loved one or a close friend suffer and deteriorate
(I have lost a daughter and a sister). Chhoki has hinted at the months of treatment,
but chosen to emphasize the joy of recovery.

She leaves the misery, the darkness, colour of the sun I missed, to the end of the poem,
after we know the story has a happy ending. When the doctor pronounces the sentence,
perhaps avoiding eye contact, the lights go out, the sun hides its face. The world is
gray, foggy, dreary. Favorite foods lose their flavor, become repulsive; the morning
coffee tastes like metal. The smell of food, bubbling on the stove, baking in the oven,
roasting on the grill, is nauseating. Hair falls out, skin becomes ashen. The face in
the mirror is ghostly, skeletal. Exhaustion begins the day and ends it. Walking, even a
few steps, causes faintness. The mind is clouded. A simple chore, such as balancing a
checkbook, the household accounts, is a long arduous task.

The first line, back home, is wonderful. Home is that comfort place we hurry to after a
long arduous journey or a hard day’s work. There we can kick off our shoes, put on our
old faded jeans, breathe deeply, and relax. There we refresh mind, body, and spirit for
a new beginning. In the second line, we learn the long arduous journey has been to the
oncology ward, sitting for hours while poisons drip into the vein, poisons that cause
such awful nausea, fatigue, depression. All of that is past now, we are home.

Color bursts back into our lives, into our faces, senses reawaken. Once favorite foods
again become favorites. We rejoice in the smell of bread baking in the oven. Morning
coffee has the aroma, the taste, that we love, that sets us stirring, ready for sunrise,
birdsong, a walk among the flowers. Walk, such a wonderful word. What joy, that first
hike, actually climbing a hill after many months of incapacity. The mind is whole again.
Thoughts, dreams, ideas burst forth as juice bursts from the orange. All of the lights
that were extinguished back there in the oncology ward are back on again. We soak up
the sun, a giant orange ball rising in the east, in a radiant halo of color, colors we
know and colors so rare we do not even know their names.

Joy to all who have traveled through the darkness and come back home to the light.

From my first reading of this tanka, I could feel the silence, beauty and coldness of the moon.
The moon has changing faces . . . new moon, crescent, half moon, full moon . . . and as you
know, we are usually unable to see it by day.
And I often feel that the moon is watching over me – like my late parents.

While I can't feel the strength or dazzle of the sun from the moon, the moon has particular nuance, I think.

The poet, David Terelinck, also feels the healing from the moon.
He wrote "only the moon understands my grief . . ."

I immediately felt drawn toward the first 2 lines.
"my grief" is the writer's own emotion at first, but then we (the readers) can share his emotion
as our own.

He expressed this directly by the beginning word, "only". We can understand about the writer's
solitude and that no one could understand his grief but the moon.

And he continues to consider the phases of the moon. "waxing, waning"; "...so complete"
These also relate to our life, our feelings and passions.

He used the word "sometimes" . . . yes, sometimes our life appears to be "waxing " and "so complete".
But also sometimes "waning".
In the depth of my difficulties, I feel this "waning" of myself.

But we are not alone, I think . . .
The Moon is watching me, watching us, like our best friend, like our late parents or late grand parents.
Are they smiling in your hearts?
Yes, they are always smiling in our hearts and watching us, sending their deep love.

In the last line, he wrote, "it cannot be ignored".
Yes, like our beauty of our own life, we can't ignore the beauty of the complete moon.

This tanka expresses our common feeling of life perfectly by the poet’s excellent skill.

While in the creative throes of composing Kubla Khan, Coleridge was famously interrupted by a
visitor from Porlock. In my case the visitor from Porlock took the guise of indecision.
Which one from the many accomplished tanka should I pick?

Then I had a dream. It was the New Year pilgrimage to the cave temple, high above my ancestral
valley. People were prostrating and offering fruits, butter lamps and coins. I held out the
Eucalypt Issue 11. The eyes of the Buddha of Compassion opened. But before he could speak I woke up.

The visitor from Porlock was still in the room. I read the poems all over again and this
one by Rodney Williams began to take shape in my mind.

in a field
flanked by plum trees
a chimney
its wood-fire stove
burning with rust

The imagery of a field flanked by plum trees immediately opens up a vista. The tanka then turns
with an unexpected image of a chimney. The juxtaposition of the field and plum trees
on the one hand, and the chimney and the wood-fire stove, on the other, evokes a surreal
de Chirico-like effect.

The verb:

flanked

has a military ring to it, suggesting order in the way the plum trees stand, and contrasts
with the solitary chimney of the abandoned wood-fire stove.

Williams’ tanka is one of dichotomy of nature and civilisation. The discarded stove represents
the latter. The detail:

burning with rust

hints of the colours of autumn while the plum trees are a classic symbol of spring particularly
in Japanese poetry. There’s a sense of the triumph of the natural world over that of civilization
in that the plum trees and the field are still alive and can renew themselves, whereas the
man-made artefact, the wood stove, which used to burn wood, is now defunct.

Williams has imbued a moment of keen observation with a potential for a more universal
awareness of the nature of things. The power of this tanka lies in the way it suggests
multiple reading of a relatively simple scene.

Other poems too have made a deep impact on this indecisive reviewer and deserve a special mention.

Barbara Strang has an unexpected framing of the mountains in this detail in her tanka:

through metal struts
the flawless mountains

Regret and anguish are captured in these lines of Barbara Taylor's tanka:

Beverley George’s keen eye for high quality tanka ensures that every poem in issue 12 of Eucalypt is
worthy of a Scribble Award or special mention. In doing so, Beverley ensures each person who has
to pass the Award to a new recipient has an extremely difficult challenge in front of them.
There are many exceptional tanka in Eucalypt issue 12 that are more than worthy of the Award. And these all appeared vividly on each subsequent reading of the journal. However, the one poem that kept drawing me back over and over was Dorothy McLaughlin’s tanka on page 7:

prayers
at their child’s deathbed –
the answer
that left his faith stronger
made her an atheist
Dorothy McLaughlin

For someone who is a lover of classical tanka, I felt this poem has it all . . . the classic
structure of S/L/S/L/L format, no redundant words or phrases, and is a tanka where each line
successively builds on the strength of the one before it to create a tanka that touches the
heart, soul and mind. It is a tanka not easily forgotten, and has many subtle layers.

For me this tanka encapsulates three of the themes that classical Japanese tanka poets wrote
about; it contains all the elements of love, loss and longing. Who could not be moved by the plight
of devoted and loving parents praying at the side of their dying child? The love of parent for
child is said to be one of the strongest and most motivational loves within the world.

And this very act of prayer and love at the deathbed gives such a visually strong image of the
imminent loss they must prepare for. But beyond this physical loss of young life is also a loss
of relationship; for we inherently know that husband and wife must drift apart if the poles of
their faith are moving in vastly opposing directions. And then we see a spiritual loss for
the wife . . . the death of her child, and a failure of prayer to be answered, “made her an
atheist”. This careful selection of phrase suggests this wife was not an atheist before this
event, and therefore there is an acute loss of relationship with her faith.

There is a desperate sense of longing evident within this poem. Longing for the prayers to be
answered, longing for their child to live, perhaps the one with faith longs for a peaceful passing
of their child, or from the other a longing to have a faith that sustains. One can also imagine a
longing that many parents may experience in similar situations . . . that roles were reversed with
them and their child.

The tanka opens with an expansive view due to the use of a single word of great strength, prayers.
Prayers are open to everyone who chooses to use them, and can encompass an unending scope of requests
from the insignificant to the profound. This gives every reader an entry point that pulls us
immediately into the tanka; we all have the ability to pray. This view then very quickly narrows
in line two as we are directed to the reason for the prayers – a dying child. The tanka again
opens up in the last two lines to give us so much space that whole worlds now exist between the
two parents. And this concept of faith and atheism ensures we are taken back to our starting
point of prayers. In this manner the tanka has a sensitive elliptical quality that is highly
satisfying to the reader.

On each reading I continue to find something new in this tanka to enjoy. And although this tanka
leaves me breathless with its pain and raw emotion, it does so gently, without hubris or intrusion,
without preaching or proselytising. This tanka continues to linger at each reading, and will remain
a firm favourite with me for many years to come.

Many other tanka within this issue also deserve a special mention. Each of the following has moved
me for different reasons. But what they all have in common is a genuine poetic lyricism that never
fails to engage me, a sense of relationship within the tanka that I can easily relate to, a
gentleness of thought and expression, and a sincerity of emotion of the lived journey.

oversewing
heather with wattle
I tack on
the soft tread of your feet,
your arm linked through mine

Kathy Kituai (page 26)

I can see no one
for miles on these wind-roamed moors
yet, these breaths
of incense, secondhand . . .
another’s rite, or refuge

Claire Everett (page 28)

blue mussels
bubble through shells
half open . . .
like dying, this wait
for an incoming tide

Carole MacRury (page 40)

if you were here
we’d take our tea
up on the roof
and set the world to right –
if only you were here

Anne Benjamin (page 41)

Congratulations to everyone in issue #12. It has been a joy to read everyone’s work, and it is a
sincere privilege to pass the Award to Dorothy.

Two people meet, over drinks, to chat. One of them is anxious to pass on news that seems
personally devastating at first, only to take on other implications instead. In a further
twist, such tidings provoke reactions from the listener which the bearer of bad news
might never have anticipated ...

It would seem that the two characters featured in Aubrie Cox’s intriguing tanka enjoy a
long-standing bond. Gender is not specified - nor is the exact status of their relationship.
Probably friends, and most likely both female, they would appear not to have seen each other recently.

At first instance, the opening of “news” suggests that the poem’s speaker – whether Aubrie
herself, or a constructed persona – is hearing grievous tidings, to the effect that the friend
has just been diagnosed with a terminal illness: “news/ you’ve been dying”.

Instantly, however, that bleak possibility is given a lighter spin, via a clever and playful
use of enjambment spanning into the third line, combined with a colloquial – as against
literal – turn of phrase. Rather than being at death’s door, the bearer of news might have
gossip about others – or a personal disclosure – which she (or he) is “dying/ to share”.

A genuine strength in so sparse yet rich a piece is the way in which this tanka invites us
to hypothesise. One reading could involve this pair sharing a third acquaintance, with the first character
desperate to convey sensational tidings – hot off the grapevine – about unfortunate
developments in the life of that mutual friend.
Such information is grim, prompting – at first reading – a feeling of sadness, as
symbolised by “ice”: plainly a sense of coldness imbues the second stage of this tanka.
Yet perhaps the deeper scenario being suggested might not be – once again – quite as
simple as it initially appeared.

Maybe this chilliness denotes not so much sorrow in itself, as distaste at having been
told devastating news in an insensitive way. This iciness of heart could be directed
towards “you” – the teller of sad tales – as an embittered response to hurtful gossip.
To look at this possibility from a different slant, we could identify a further complexity
in this apparently simple poem by appreciating its symbolism, not only on an emotional
level, but also on a perceptual one:

ice rearranges
in my glass

Across this tanka’s punctuated break, Aubrie Cox effects an adroit transition: implicit here –
in so few words – is a good deal more than the notion that the news conveyed has had a chilling
impact, as characterised by a traditional (indeed, oft-used) metaphor of ice.

We know that different types of lenses bend rays of light to varying extents, affecting what and
how the human eye can see as a result. In a poem so spare in detail, the writer has opted to be
explicit about the presence of not one but two substances that both have translucent, refracting
properties: glass as well as ice.

The curved surface of a whisky tumbler is sure to distort beams of light, as will blocks of ice.
Aubrie Cox pointedly shows how these ice-blocks shift about in their glass, rather than remaining
still. Yet the poet is firm in her refusal to use a passive voice: she does not say that “ice is
rearranged”. So frugal in its diction as to feel no need to say “ice rearranges itself”, the writing
suggests that frozen blocks have not so much been jiggled around by the drinker’s hand, as they
have become active – even reactive – of their own accord.

When ice-cubes move, the rays of light passing through them will be refracted differently. Again,
if sorrowful news is conveyed too cheerily, this could likewise prompt an unexpected
reaction – indeed, a new angle; a reassessment – in the form of distaste at insensitivity.

In addressing her associate directly as “you”, while referring to herself in the first person,
Aubrie Cox confronts her audience, perhaps challenging us to reflect about whether we may have
passed on a hot tale ourselves, only to become embarrassed when such gossip left our listeners
cold. The poet’s key strategy is to suggest and yet withhold, rather than being explicit about what
form the news in question might take, or which reactions it could trigger.

In this light, another interpretation presents itself. Perhaps two young women have agreed
to meet for drinks, with one ecstatic at having recently formed a romantic attachment with
a man known to them both. The trouble may be that the second woman had herself entertained
hopes of finding love in this same quarter, whereas now all she can exhibit is feigned
happiness for her friend, while her heart freezes over with a sorrow that must remain hidden.

Traditional in structure, lean in form, inferential in approach, this poem asks questions that
it declines to answer – to its credit – exemplifying the simple yet complicated dictum that less
is best. Aubrie Cox’s tanka – like all striking work in Japanese short-forms – is deftly crafted and
suggestive; minimalist yet thought-provoking. What a pleasure it has been to appraise such
poetry – “news” truly is the finest piece that I have discovered lately, in a genre long
since dear to my spirit.

dogs are buried
in the woods behind
our house—
please let's talk no more
about leaving

— John Quinnett

One of the hardest things about leaving my childhood home was the fact that our family dog was
buried in the backyard; it felt like we were leaving both the house and her behind. Aside from the
triggering of my own personal memories and sentiments or even the feelings of any pet owner, the
success of Quinnett's poem rests in the balance of being open and holding back. This tanka dares to
provide what has the potential to be too much information; however its presentation and structure of
information and shift from the first to the second half of the poem creates tension, and the unraveling
mystery raises as many questions as it answers.

Declarative statements in short poetry can be a dangerous thing when not executed properly,
especially in Japanese forms that strive to leave some things to the imagination and open for the
reader to enter the moment. The first half of the poem—"dogs are buried / in the woods behind / our
house"—leaves little room for argument. It's the line breaks that open the poem for interaction and
interpretation. As each line adds new information about the location of the buried dogs and their
proximity to the speaker, the end of each line brings the reader to a stopping place to ruminate over
each piece of information and consider the possibilities. The poem moves from generic to specific in
its telling of the buried dogs, while also moving from a smaller to larger space from the burial site to
the woods and the house beyond. Meanwhile, the emotions move from uneasiness to slightly more
personal and melancholy. It is not until the second half that it's clearer that the dogs likely belong to
the speaker (and even then, it can't be confirmed); nevertheless, the closeness of the dead dogs to the
house alone creates a connection between the dogs and speaker. The layout of the land in the first half
creates a level of intrigue for the reader; the dash promises both a shift from and potential insight into
why the first half matters.

The last two lines of the tanka also build on top of one another and open up room for reader
participation. By itself "please let's talk no more" could be understood to mean "let's no longer discuss
the dogs buried out back," or a simple plea for a moment of silence. The last line brings the mystery
of the first half's importance to a close as it resonates and circles back to feelings of unease;
meanwhile, it opens up to a series of new questions: Why would the speaker and his or her significant
other/family consider moving? How many times has this conversation (that I imagine happening)
occurred? How much of this poem is actually spoken aloud, and how much is silently understood by
all parties? The tanka is generous in what it does tell the reader, but equally coy when it comes to
these questions. The rich balance tugs at the heartstrings and makes the reader feel the strain the
speaker must be experiencing in the thought of the dogs and the possibility of leaving, and on top of it
all, the disagreement with whoever else is included in "our house."

The dash visually creates a clear separate between the two halves of the poem. This makes them feel
like independent ideas, but they are so dependent upon one another for their significance. Why is the
information about the dogs important? Because there is talk of leaving. Why does the speaker not
want to leave? The dogs buried in the woods. The image and emotion beautifully shift and circle back,
never quite resolving and always bringing the reader back. Eucalypt's pages always contain
breathtaking tanka, but this is one that wouldn't leave me alone when I tried to sleep at night. If that is
not the sign of a successful poem, I'm not sure what is.

The image is arresting, a young boy who has dedicated himself to the sacred. His old life is gone, his
hair shorn, his secular clothes replaced by saffron robes. His youthful frame is adorned in garb that
proclaims his vocation.

Barbara Curnow has painted him sitting and still. Then she draws her readers and herself closer to
hear the boy pray. She shares what she realizes, that the child does not know these prayers by heart.
Like members of all religious communities and of all religions, he must grow into his faith. The boy, I
assume, has made a vow, a step that's not the end of life's pilgrimage but one of its milestones.
"Not yet, by heart". I wasn't sure about the comma in line five. It made me slow down and pause. Yes,
I thought, he must know many of the words already by rote. Time and grace and fellow monks will
help him engrave the prayers in his heart, the core of his being. It hasn't happened yet, completely, but
it will.

The tanka reminded me of Jesus as a youth in the Temple at Jerusalem, talking with the elders. Also, I
thought of boys serving in children's armies, as well as young people at rites of bar and bat mitzvahs
and confirmation, their courage as they commit themselves to the unknown.

Joyce S Greene, too wrote about the power of a child, a girl who brought joy and comfort to the
person I assume was a grandmother, the first four lines brimming with joy, the last startling, leaving
me to ask where is her mother, dead, in jail, a runaway. And Elizabeth Howard's tanka inspired this
reader's pity for a boy, cold and supperless, desperately in need of the world's help, compelling those
who witness his troubles to aid him and others in like circumstances.

Many readings allowed me to hear the softness of the tanka's language, the "s" sounds in saffron (a
gentle word, a glowing color), robes, shiny, shaven, sits, reciting, prayers. By design or chance, there
was no sibilation in the last line.

The power of words, the power of a child: Barbara Curnow has given us a memorable and beautiful
jewel.

a mountain peak
softens with age
the stoop
that was your father's
has become your own

— Michele L. Harvey

An old man, living in the oldest mountains on earth, who looks in the mirror every morning
and sees his father looking back, this tanka had me at hello. And yet, dutiful to my task,
I read and reread Eucalypt 14 to make certain I hadn't missed a more precious
offering. This got me into trouble. The more I read the more I found myself torn in this
direction and that. So many deserving poems! Indecision, my old pal, knocked on the door.
I let him in and he stayed two weeks. It seemed like the 60s again. I went into a lateral
drift. A gentle nudge from Beverley and I woke up to the task once more. I decided to
choose the tanka that first stole my heart: Harvey's "a mountain peak."

Resonance seems like an overworked word when used in reference to Japanese short form verse,
yet for me personally, this is the poem's most outstanding quality. It's a poem that echoes like a
train whistle through the coves and hollows of the Great Smoky Mountains, where I've been hiding
out from the world all these years. The poem found me here, and spoke to me in a voice so simple
and direct I nearly shuddered with the shock of recognition. My first impulse was to memorize the
poem and go about reciting it to myself, my little dog, all my friends when I ran into them, even guys
at the bar in town. I did that. That's how much this tanka resonated with me.

The tanka opens with a simple declarative sentence: "a mountain peak/softens with age." These
first two lines present an image so arresting and true that I paused right there, at the end of the
second line, and sank into reverie. I didn't want to go on. The poet may or may not live in a place
like mine, but all I have to do is look up and I see mountain peaks softening with age all around me.
In contemplating this image I thought about the geological age of the Smokies and the time it has
taken to soften or wear them down. If the reader is looking for "dreaming room," the first part of this
poem has it in abundance.

Finally, dropping down to the third and central line I was caught on a ledge and held there, stopped
by those two simple words: "the stoop." More perfect hinges, or pivot lines have appeared in tanka
before; I just can't think of one. This is the crucial line of the poem. Adding this line to the first half
of the tanka and it works with haiku-like effect. But coupling this line with the concluding two lines
and you're hit with a more startling image. The poem suddenly explodes with meaning. That stoop
says it all: about growing older, about being your father's son, about learning to bend into the wind,
about accepting with serenity those things you can't change, about passing time and eternity itself.
I like the way this tanka loops you right back to the first part for another reading, and the way the two
halves seem to fuse together. The marvel to me is how Harvey is able to accomplish all this in a sixteen
word, twenty syllable poem. There is not one word or syllable too many in this tanka. And yet,
it left me standing on a mountain peak in the Smokies with my father remembering sixty years ago
when I stood with him as a boy on another mountain peak in the High Sierra mountains of California.
The Smokies are old mountains; the Sierras young, jagged, and tall.

all my life
I expect no grand bouquet
yet wish for
someone to greet me
with a single flower

— Kiyoko Ogawa

I love the way this poem settles me into a feeling of deep peace and contentment, but also
arouses my curiosity. The first two lines indicate that the protagonist has never been a
person who expects showy demonstrations of appreciation, praise or love. And the words
?all my life? prove that her wish is no passing preference, but a desire so fundamental as
to be life-long. But why would someone hold such a wish so strongly? I admire and delight
in this tanka because it evokes in me several answers to that question.

A bouquet, especially a grand one, can certainly be stunning. However, its mixture of
shapes, colours, sizes and fragrances lacks the quiet beauty, simplicity and understatement
of a single flower. Our senses may be overwhelmed by a big bouquet, but are likely to be
soothed and pacified by apprehending just one bloom. So Kiyoko?s tanka speaks to me of a
yearning for the beauty of simplicity; a sentiment that I?m sure most tanka lovers appreciate.

To be greeted with a single flower, also, in my mind, represents being greeted in a more
intimate or personal way. It conveys a longing to be deeply known, understood and accepted
by another. The poem does not express a wish to be greeted by a particular person, just
?someone?; the longing to connect deeply with at least one person in this world.

The reference to a single flower also reminds me of the famous story about the Buddha,
in which a seeker approached him, offered a flower, bowed, and asked for his teachings.
The Buddha sat quietly, then slowly, in a wordless message to the assembled crowd, held
up the flower. This gesture referred to the unity of all things; a truth that is beyond
words and can only be known through one?s inner experience.

I also admire the structure of this tanka, because it helped me to experience its essence.
I love the way the third line stands strongly. It not only emphasises the wish, but ensures
that by the end of the poem, the hustle and bustle of bouquets is far behind, and I am left
holding a single flower.

So for me, this exquisite tanka by Kiyoko Ogawa speaks of a longing for simplicity and
deep connection with others. Such a universal theme, so beautifully rendered, will surely
find resonance in the hearts of many readers.

waiting on the dock
a woman holds a placard
with my name on it
I am put in her arms,
my mother, singing to me
— Neal Whitman

My shortlist gleanings from Eucalypt 15 were eighteen poems which had been already
severely pruned. (My gratitude and admiration to all for such a treasure trove to choose from.)
This kind of exercise makes one take stock and reaffirms the love of the tanka form.
What is it that makes me fall in love again and again? What is it that makes opening
Eucalypt like a sumptuous box of chocolates, not knowing what surprises and flavors
will meet the tongue? Like a box of chocolates one returns to one’s favorite flavors, but why
no matter how often tasted do they remain so? A little investigation reveals the source;
a story line exquisitely unfolded as if by a master chocolatier, which tickles the tongue (
or mind) with each progressive line, slowly unveiling nuances never before dreamed of.
This may be done with closely cropped verse or in a languid, lyrical song.

Neal Whitman’s poem was such a one, with each line building on the preceding until the crescendo.
The picture and its gravity may be guessed at line four, but line five adds the humanity and
pathos of a loving mother relinquishing the blood of her blood. There could be no more heart
rending moment between two souls, which are also changed forever by it. It is drawn in the simplest
of prose but depicts an anguish and tenderness beyond words by the mother singing to her child
even while giving him up, in hope for a better life for him.
Neal Whitman has presented this picture matter-of-factly without sentiment, but that is precisely
what brings out the full-bodied flavor and immensity of the scene, evincing the hand of a master.

Other very fine poems which followed closely and were built masterfully, line upon line were:

flight crew demonstrates
inflatable life jackets
I gasp at the thought
of your coffin
in the cargo hold
— Lois J Funk

my brother
talks of cremation
casually —
the door half open
one hand on the latch
— Michael Thorley

I don’t possess
the accomplishments
of a lady…
sewing, decorating
playing second fiddle
— Keitha Keyes

my river
flows to the sea
soon I will
be finished
with yesterdays
— Mel Goldberg

Please note, this is not a prerequisite for fine tanka but one of which sets up a cinematic view
and spectacular Aha moment. Together they weave an unforgettable whole and a poem which
is seared in memory.

flight crew demonstrates
inflatable life jackets
I gasp at the thought
of your coffin
in the cargo hold
— Lois J Funk

Some of our poets tend to be critical of tanka expressing sentiment that is too subjective.
In my opinion, however, this is exactly one of the strengths that tanka possess. Because
of the limitation of length and fixed rules, tankaists think hard how to discard any redundant
word, thus enabling a work to connect directly with the essential core of our own hearts.

I have appreciated many good tanka in this issue, especially the ones addressing old age,
impending death or ominous news. But as I have to choose only one tanka for the Award,
I have decided to take the one which sends out the most poignant personal emotion and which
imprints an unforgetable impression on the readers' minds.

Ms. Funk's tanka strikes a strong chord with me. Curiously enough, I recently heard a similar
tragic story from one of my Australian friends that her relative from Europe suddenly passed
away in Brisbane after greatly enjoying his dream trip to the Antipodes. His wife flew home
with her husband's coffin in the hold.

In this tanka the expressed contrast between life and death is conspicuous, which invites each
reader's empathy perhaps beyond the author's intention. Only those still living deserve being
protected by 'life jackets,' while the dead is put in the hold, being uninflatable.

The structure of this tanka is admirably precise; the first two lines of the upper section
are replete with sounds, light and even hope; the closing two lines are of the literal
underworld; chilly, silent and dark. In between is poised the narrator, who physically
belongs to the former, but spiritually to the latter.

Since the ancient times the Japanese have written countless elegies in the genre of waka.
I believe an elegy is one form of love poem. Ms. Funk's tanka possesses the decisive
universality of human grief.

Lastly as a return poem (henka . .) I quote here an elegy by Yosano Akiko written after losing
her husband.

.........................

You departed this life
without knowing
such grief
such tears
such chill of mine.

.........................

[Note: Kiyoko Ogawa followed this elegy with two kanji [unable to be replicated here]
meaning ‘Gassho’ (joining my palms), ‘a pose or signal for praying for the deceased.
It's a Buddhist gesture when worshipping at temples or funerals.’ ]